“Frank and Louisa are too busy to notice what we do,” I whispered in her ear, as I inclined the willing girl backwards on the soft pillow of sand, and reversing my position, we laid at full length, side by side, both of us as eager as possible for the game; my head was buried between her loving thighs, with which she pressed me most amorously, as my tongue was inserted in her loving slit; this was fine gamahuche.

1976, Robert Nye, Falstaff:

O Muses, Sacred Nine, and Memory most of all, mother of all of them, and they our mothers – I was Doll Tearsheet’s alchemist that night, and by gamahuche turned her base metal into gold.